But in the end it had been Angelina, not Rosanna, who had outfitted him. Petro’s mother, Rosanna, was indisposed, and Marco had yet to actually see her except at meals. She seemed ill, and looked as frail as a creature of lace and spun glass. He much doubted she’d seen him, not really; he’d kept his head down and his eyes fixed on his plate, and he never spoke. That wasn’t because Dorma cousins were unfriendly; mostly it was because he didn’t know what to say. The intricacies of polite social conversation were still a mystery to him. And what could he talk about, anyway? How to survive in the marshes? The best ways to break into a house?
So he kept his mouth shut, and let the Dorma cousins steer him though the maze of dancing, religion, and etiquette lessons; let Angelina guide him through what it meant to be a House scion; let Caesare Aldanto try to show him how to keep himself alive with that Valdosta steel—
And let Angelina outfit him. In leather, silk, wool, and finest linen. Clothing he hadn’t worn since that long ago childhood in Ferrara, the kind where the cost of one pair of boots would outfit a canaler for years.
The silk of a sleeve slid caressingly along his arm as he adjusted the positioning of the basse taille enameled sword-rest by a fraction of an inch. The stand itself was adequate—the best Petro could do on short notice. The cabinet maker had been given a more exact design, and instructions to paint the stand with no fewer than twenty coats of varnish. That kind of work took time, and Marco was content to wait for it.
The walnut half-moon table it stood on, though, was perfect. Rescued from the Dorma attics, its neat marquetry could have come from the hand of a master craftsman. Perhaps it had come from Ferrara too—Rosanna Dorma had brought some furnishings with her from their estates outside Vicenza. Iron from Vicenza went to the forges of Ferrara and the Dell’este craftsmen marked only their steel.
Marco looked again at the old sword and shivered. The second sword of Dell’este, that he’d last seen on its own rest just below the first sword. It brought with it levels of meaning as intricate and interleaved as the folded and refolded steel that made up the blade.
* * *
“The sword of Duke Dell’este is the soul of House Dell’este,” the old duke had said, with Marco kneeling attentively beside him.
“This sword—” Marco had turned wide eyes on his grandfather—”is as old as Ferrara?!” He could not imagine it: the tally of years made him dizzy to contemplate.
“Not Ferrara and not this sword,” Grandfather had sighed. “The Dell’este were swordsmiths . . . back when the Etruscans first came across the mountains to the flatlands of the east. The first soul of Dell’este was forged in Felsina. The second in hiding in Motena. The third was made in the marshes we reclaimed to make Ferrara’s wealth. Each time we have made two. As strong and with the new skills that the Dell’este alone can give to the great blades. Some call it magic . . .” The old man had smiled, dryly. “The witchfinders suspect us. But if there is magic, it is in the blood and bone and steel of the Dell’este. Sometimes . . . when the House Dell’este is threatened—in uncertain times—it is sometimes wise to send a second soul out with an heir to seek a new home, so that the Dell’este line will continue. This is the third blade that—”
Beside him, Benito wriggled and yawned audibly.
“Father, this is boring me to tears.” Lorendana had complained. “I can hardly imagine the boys—”
“Exactly,” Grandfather had snapped. “You can hardly imagine anything. Exercising your mind is evidently beyond you.” He rose to his feet, his face gone cold with anger, and pointed to the door behind her. “Go, get out of here, and take your impertinence with you.”
* * *
That was what Grandfather had meant, sending the sword. That things were deteriorating in Ferrara. That he feared for the House Dell’este, and was taking steps to ensure its survival. But he, Marco Valdosta, was merely the child of a daughter of the house. Things must be dire indeed . . . that he, Marco, was now a recognized heir.